Dear Gregory
by daffidil
Summary: Mycroft feels the need to write down his thoughts and feelings, but he never intended for his words to be read... especially by the person they were addressed to... Mystrade (separate story, different beginnings)
1. dear gregory

_London, 4th september_

_Dear Gregory,_

_Somehow I find myself sitting here, writing this letter to you. As if made to by a mysterious force. I must, even though I am quite sure that this letter will never be read by you. Alas, so be it._

_I enjoy writing letters, always have, as a way of making some sort of sense of what goes on in my life, and writing too you like this makes me feel slightly connected, which probably sounds very peculiar, were you to ever read this. To me it makes the utmost sense._

_Yesterday, when we met for coffee in that sweet little place near the park, I was feeling slightly apprehensive at first: had I been too forward to have asked you? You had accepted my invite happily, despite hesitation at first. I felt delighted to receive your text stating that yesterday afternoon would be fine with you. And when the initial nerves went, it seemed to me that we both had a lovely time. I enjoyed talking to you, as I have done so far on the few occasions that my brother or your sergeants weren't an interrupting factor – rather often, to my dismay – and I felt a kind of connection between us both. A connection and a strange fluttering in my stomach…_

_When you first appeared on the scene, all those years ago, I was unsure of you. For some reason, only known to you then, you had decided that taking on my younger brother was a great idea, giving him the time and the trust he was so desperately seeking, and I found it hard to fathom your intentions. Why Sherlock, of all people? But Sherlock put his faith in you, as he knew that you were a man who could be trusted, unlike any man he'd known in his life thus far. And if he relied on his instinct, his intuition like that, I thought I should give you the benefit of my own doubt. Thinking back on that, I feel slightly silly, to ever doubt you, your objectives, your innate good nature. Maybe I have met too many men that proved this rule, and you, my dear Gregory, are the exception. My deepest, heart-felt apologies I offer you for ever feeling the need to abduct you and question your intentions, like I did on those two occasions. The first time was, I felt, necessary to get an angle on you, to have first-hand knowledge of you as a person, as security cameras can only tell me so much. I very much enjoyed what I __sensed__, what I __saw__. The second time was altogether unnecessary, and I feel that you were aware of this, but I never detected much resistance in you, only mild irritation at not being where you should have been – your wife's birthday party in a restaurant in Surrey. But even that irritation was – in my humble opinion – for show._

_Again, I so much enjoyed yesterday, seeing you so at ease, laughing like we were old friends, talking about all those things that came to mind – our jobs (how dull), my brother, your wife… And I saw the sadness in your eyes, not for the wife you might lose, as I sensed hardly any sentiment in your voice when you talked about her, but for the loss of a time you have known, the passing of a part of your life that did have its kind and enjoyable moments. It must have done, I noticed the fondness in your voice when you spoke of it. You must have loved your wife, I'm sure of that, but it had gone. And maybe, just maybe, I can do something to ease that sadness in you. It shall be my quest …_

_I shall leave it at this, as I've run out of feelings to trust to this piece of paper, for which I will find a good place to hide._

_Yours, if you want me, _

_Mycroft Holmes_

He reread it three times, just to make sure that he had written down what he had meant to write, then proceeded to fold the paper in half, and over another time, so that he was left with a neat looking document, which he'd put inside an envelope, and put it on his desk. In his handwriting he had put 'Gregory' on it, in elegant, swirly letters. He meant to put away the envelope, but got distracted by a phone call from the Home Office, and left it there.

When he came back from the meeting in Downing Street, he noticed that the letter had gone. It wasn't in one of the drawers in his desk, nor was it in any of the trays that sat on top. He was puzzled, and sat down. Maybe someone had gotten it, and was using it to possibly blackmail him. How silly it was of him to leave it laying there – anybody could've gotten it! Mycroft had no idea what to do next. He placed elbows on the desktop, rested his head in his hands, and sighed. He then folded his hands, as if he was praying, and mumbled: 'Please, just let something good come from this…' after which he found one of his headache tablets and took it with a gulp of water.

* * *

At Scotland Yard, in the office of DI Lestrade, the phone hasn't stopped ringing all morning. It feels like his head will explode any minute, and frantically he motions to one of his sergeants to come and see him. Sgt Anderson, the only one who's not busy, wanders over into his superiors' room and nods to make it clear that he's ready for instructions.

'Anderson, great, I need you to tell Marnie that I don't want any phone calls for half an hour, please. Tell her to hold any that don't have to do with death, that I will call them back…' Greg grizzles.

'But sir, you can do that yourself, surely…' the sergeant huffs.

'I know, I just… Can you do that please? Much appreciated,' Greg carries on, not taking much notice of the lack of enthusiasm his sergeant displays for his new role of errand boy.

'Okay…' Anderson answers with great reluctance. 'Anything else, sir, while I'm here?'

"No thanks, that will do.' Greg's attention has moved from the man in front of him to the letter that had been delivered by a courier half an hour ago. It had been sitting on a pile where he'd put it while he was busy on the phone, trying to tell one of his senior colleagues in another department exactly where to stick his procedures, and is now staring at the envelope which has his first name on the front, written in swirls with what seemed like an fountain pen, then a typed sticker with his work address on it underneath. It also carries a stamp saying 'urgent'. Greg rests his head lightly on his folded hands, and his elbows rest in turn on his desk, which is strewn with files, papers, notes and three empty coffee mugs. In the corner on the envelope, bottom left, he notices a family crest, with the letter H intricately in the middle. He can't think of anybody who'd have stationary like that, so it's probably someone to do with a murder case. Maybe it's clues… Maybe it's toxic substance… Maybe he should get another department involved...

Maybe not... Very carefully Greg opens the letter, fully expecting now to have poison spill out onto his desk, and the knife he uses for the purpose of slicing open letters and documents is closely inspected for proof in that direction, but the thing comes out clean, and Greg is now not sure of what to do. He decides to trust his intuition and take out the pieces of paper inside, unfold them, to have revealed to him the handwritten letter, addressed to him, written by… Mycroft Holmes?!

Greg falls back into his chair, confused. He lets go of the letter, leaves in on his desk, and gets up to wander away, to get some lunch in the caf around the corner, unwilling to give this turn of events any more of his time. There's enough going on in his life.


	2. chain reaction

**a/n: thanx heaps for reactions and followings - very encouraging!**

* * *

**2. chain reaction**

Greg put down the pen and glanced over the fourth version of the note he was thinking of sending to Mycroft. His hand nearly moved to grab and scrunch up the yellow piece of paper from his Oxford writing pad as well, but he resisted the urge. He felt his correspondent needed a reply, even though the letter that he had been reading, and re-reading after he came back from his late lunch, was never supposed to be in his possession, and was Mycroft even aware of this? Maybe he would be spooked by a reply…? But he wished to return some kind of acknowledgement of his joy, and confusion, and slight state of elation at having just read what he had.

Just one more read through, he thought. Wouldn't do any harm.

_New Scotland Yard, 4/9_

_Mycroft,_

_It was with rather a lot of surprise that I read the letter you wrote to (at?) me, and it was very clear that I was never actually meant to read it. This added to the wonder: why did I receive it? _

_Not that I wasn't at all pleased – you write ever so lovely, and I don't feel any reply will be nearly as eloquent and well put together as the (handwritten!) piece I have lying here in front of me. I feel flattered, and bemused… _

_Whoever made sure that I received it should be thanked and not sacked…_

_Much love, Greg Lestrade_

The hour they'd spent together the day before had been far more enjoyable than Greg had thought when he'd accepted Mycroft's invitation. He had been curious, and a little bit flattered that he of all people would take an interest in his person. Of all the people Mycroft Holmes must meet during a week…

He put the note in a blank envelope, wrote 'Mr M Holmes' and wondered where the hell he would send it to… He had absolutely no idea where the man lived, or worked, and started tapping away on his computer, hoping that POIROT, the official search site of the Metropolitan Police, could help him out.

It turned out that it couldn't. Mycroft Holmes, to his intelligence system at least, was invisible. A text to Sherlock perhaps? Maybe he would be happy to provide him with an address. Maybe he should just send _Mycroft_ a text, wouldn't that be far easier…?

~ _wondering if you could help me out? Need to send something to your brother, is there an address available? None in the system here. Would be enormously grateful… _- GL

He was well aware of the animosity between the two Holmes men, at the best of times, and he hoped that this week there wasn't a feud of any kind going on. He decided not to actually wait for a reply, and went on with his work. Plenty to keep him busy until this evening.

Hours later he heard the _pling_ of his private phone. He looked to see who it was from, noticed the name 'John' on the display and read the words written to him:

~ _sorry, Sherlock in massive strop. I believe that Mycroft can be contacted – of a fashion – at the Diogenes Club, where he seems to spend most of his time. Try there. Cheers_ – JW

Greg looked puzzled. He had heard of this club, apparently frequented by upper-class fossils that have had positions in either the government, the secret service or in science, and he'd visited the place once, to get an 89 year old chap to tell him if he remembered anything suspicious about the place a week before. He couldn't remember a thing, he said. Greg believed him.

Finding the address of the Club that John had mentioned was easy enough, and so Greg scribbled it underneath the recipient's name, and posted it in the nearest letterbox with trepidation. His letter didn't say _urgent_, but it had a First Class stamp on it, so he knew it would not get there until tomorrow. Until then he would have some sort of peace. He got himself ready to face his wife at home, wondering if she was actually going to talk to him. Stranger things had happened that day...

* * *

_Kensington, 5__th__ September_

_Dear Gregory,_

_Please accept my sincerest apologies for the drivel I've written, addressed to you. This was never meant to be read at all, it was mere diary-writing, in the form of a letter, and I feel extremely mortified for knowing that your eyes have seen it. _

_A quick investigation has revealed that my personal assistant has seen it fit to send out the envelope, which had your name on it, and make sure that it arrived, by courier I was told, at your desk. For this I have suspended her, and shall make sure that this will never happen again. _

_Hoping to have remained in some way worthy of your friendship,_

_Yours, MH_

He sighed as he reread his note. Greg's note to him had been sweet, but he was absolutely sure that this was only out of courtesy. Greg was courteous, and sweet, and funny, and warm and awfully difficult to keep out of his head. Greg, he knew from having seen him deal with Sherlock and thugs and his sergeants, was also direct, when he had to be. Direct, honest, clear.

The past night his dreams were haunted by the Detective Inspector, but not in the way he hoped he would be. DI Lestrade was antagonising Mycroft over what he had written, sneered at him for pouring his heart out, repeated all the dreadful thoughts he convinced the attractive man (that had repeatedly saved his younger brother from a fate worse than death) would be having with regards to himself. What possessed him to be open and honest?!

His hands trembled when he put the note in an envelope, un-crested this time. He wrote the address on himself, not trusting his PA with this job (and anyway, he'd sent _Anthea_ home for the rest of the week, leaving him understaffed and all in a muddle. He might have to look into that decision soon), and gave it to the departments' secretary to deal with in whatever way she saw fit. He wouldn't really mind if the note took three weeks to get to Greg.

* * *

_NSY, 5/9_

_Mycroft,_

_We should stop meeting like this…_

_Of course you are worthy of my friendship, you daft _{scribbled out}_ man! Stop being so bloody insecure… and for what it's worth: I loved what you wrote, and I really wouldn't mind if you carried on, as it makes a wonderful difference to my awful days. It's been centuries since anybody wrote anything diverting to me, and charming, like that – you have no idea how welcome your letter has been. Yes it confused me at first, and I was a little bit perturbed, but that didn't last very long. _

_Don't stop on my account, if that means anything… _

_My love, Greg_

_p.s. make sure that your PA gets a bunch of roses, with my name plus a 'thank you!' on a card attached to it! She's an angel…_

* * *

_Kensington, 8__th__ September_

_Dear Gregory,_

_For a few days I wasn't sure what to make of your note. Although it pleased me, I must add. _

_I am fully aware of your usual honesty, and felt therefore assured that you must have been true when you said that you were happy for me to carry on writing down my thoughts and sending them your way. A part of me feels that it would be inappropriate, somehow. Would it be? We don't on the whole have dealings in a professional manner, and if you are as happy as you say you are, I cannot find reason to not give in to my desire to convey my thoughts and feelings to you. Despite protestations from a little voice deep down inside, which I will give orders now to belt up (how jolly wonderful that felt too…)._

_How is your day going, I wonder? _

Mycroft sat back in his chair, unsure of how to proceed. It felt nice to write to Greg, although a kind of self-consciousness had set in, which wasn't there when he wrote his first letter. He had felt free, and easy, knowing that what he wrote down was not going to be read, and therefore was more a secret, like when he used to keep a diary (he had his suspicions that Sherlock knew how to get to it, even though he had never actually mentioned it to his older brother…). His secret self was bolder, less repressed, more prone to reveal feelings he would normally keep inside, locked away, far from punishment or ridicule…

He scribbled out the last line.

_Even though there are tonnes of things I would like to tell you, here, trusted to this piece of paper, I somehow can't. The way I felt three days ago has gone, and knowing you will read this, knowing you will have an opinion makes me feel uncomfortable. So therefor I shall leave it at this and hope you shall accept my apologies and wished for a good day._

_Yours, Mycroft_

Convinced that this would be it, Mycroft got a courier to send the letter before he would change his mind. A phone call from the Foreign Office, ordering his presence at the ministry within half an hour, put a stop to any worrying he would indubitably find himself into, if left with nothing else to do. Thank god for international troubles, Mycroft mused.

* * *

a/n: while doing research into the Met, i found that the search machine they use is called HOLMES...?! {an acronym for something...} woohahaha! to play with this a bit, i've called it POIROT {acronym for nothing yet...}, to suit my 'alternative universe'...


	3. wired

a/n: slightly angsty, this one... hope it's bearable...

thanx once more for reading!

* * *

**3. wired**

_Dreams and musings keep me awake_

_Night after night after night_

_Until I can finally feel your touch _

_My days don't seem to feel right_

_I don't want to go back _

_To how it used to be_

_The nights I was lonely_

_The days I was free_

_The guys I have stroked_

_Unloving and cold_

_The men that desired me_

_Too callous, too old_

_The backstreets, the bedsits, _

_The houses, so grand_

_The faces, the senses,_

_So loathsome, so bland…_

_None made me feel_

_The way that you can_

_When looking my way_

_When touching my hand,_

_When lips graze so lightly_

_On sensitive skin_

_My senses awaken_

_Resistance is thin_

_So dreaming and musing_

_Is all I can do_

_Until my arms feel_

_The wonderfulness that is you…_

His leather bound notebook snapped shut, and Mycroft put it down with his fountain pen on the table next to his armchair. He slumped back, and his eyes shut in tandem, the long day gliding away into the nothingness that he felt his life had become.

It had been two weeks since he sent Gregory that letter, two weeks since he made a fool of himself, two weeks of agony and loneliness. He felt drained, and all the excitement that he normally could find in his days didn't make up for the fact that the man he wanted, the man he was so much in love with, was unattainable, married. Unhappily so, but still – what chance did he have…?

He had found himself trying to blank out how sad that made him feel, looked for thrills, ones that his introverted self could handle. And when temptation came in the form of a sweet blond intern, who looked like a young god, and smiled like an angel, he managed to withstand his blatant flirting for about two days. The blond god had followed Mycroft into the gents, hell-bent on getting what he wanted, and without even knowing his name, he was kissed and caressed, for a short while all was so bloody wonderful… Afterwards he felt dirty, cheap, and the beautiful blond intern left without much fuss. Mycroft sank even deeper.

The glass of whiskey was empty, and he considered filling it again. Contemplating getting up, he heard a knock on the door.

'Yes,' his doleful voice uttered.

'Mail for you sir,' said George, his servant, who entered the room quietly, handing Mycroft an envelope.

At this time of the day?

"It had arrived earlier today but I didn't know you were in until now.' He smiled. 'Hard day, sir?'

'You could say that, George. Dull, nonetheless… Thanks for this, you may go now.'

'Goodnight, sir,' George replied and left.

Mycroft looked at the envelope in his hands. It was heavy, containing more than one sheet of paper. Unless there were attachments, like an official document, but the handwriting wasn't very official. It looked familiar.

It was Gregory's!

Mycroft thought about ripping it open, devouring whatever it was he'd been sent, but restrained himself. He got up to find his letter opener and carefully sliced the top of the envelope. The handwriting of Gregory Lestrade emerged and Mycroft found himself running his thumb over it, as if this way touching him in person.

_NSY, 19/9_

_Dear Mycroft,_

_Many things have crossed my mind since you sent me that last, god-awful letter, stating that you would leave me alone, and the most persistent thought is: what the fuck?! How is it possible that in your first letter you declare your feelings for me, you say how much you long to have me in your life, and signing it with _Yours, if you want me_… and now you're leaving me high and dry? You cold, harsh, horrible man!_

_Is taking a risk that much of a terrifying thought for you? Is trying to win me over of so little importance to you, that you drop out at the first hurdle? Where have I stated that I want you to leave me alone? That I don't want anything to do with you and your Feelings for me? _

_Having read your first letter I realised that I may have been harbouring stuff for you as well. And believe you me: this is much more of a risk for me, I have far more to lose than you ever will… You aren't married to a woman who thinks the world of you, you don't have a life with relations who have invested in you, who think they know you... You have figured out your preferences a long time ago, and knew that that was it for you… I still feel thrown every time I look into your eyes…_

_The past two weeks have been hell for me. First there was the shock of reading what you wrote to me, then the confusion over what that meant, and why I felt so happy, and strange, and excited. Then every time I look at my wife I feel I betray her trust for even considering enjoying your attention. What if I actually want you rather than her? What will that do to her? How come I only now realise that I might be gay? Or bi? Do I even know myself…?_

_But all those questions are pointless, because you wish to leave me alone. Because you don't want to take a risk and pursue me, the man you appear to like rather a lot. Are you considering my feelings here, or are you that much of a coward?_

_To be fair: I must also thank you. It was because of that first letter that I had to be honest with myself. And honesty is an important thing with me – for all his faults, my father has taught me that at least… If I have these kinds of feelings for you, if you can get me this excited, this alive, this confused, then that must mean something… I should probably tell my wife. Tell her that our marriage is finally over. But I can't… I can't break her heart. Not yet…_

_So Mycroft Holmes, if you __are at all the man I think you are: come out fighting… Or leave me alone for good…_

_Yours, if…_

_Greg_

A mixture of insane joy and anxiety was coursing through his veins. He read the letter over and over again, trying to figure out all its implications. Gregory was open to his interest… Okay…

Mycroft reached for his phone, found the name he seemed to have tattooed into his brain and started tapping the keys.

~_ received your letter. dinner tomorrow evening?_ – MH

A _pling_ sounded half a minute later.


	4. words processed

**4. words processed**

The gentle hubbub in the restaurant makes for a pleasant backdrop while Greg does his best not to say the wrong thing and scare his dinner companion back into the depths of his timidity once more. It was going well, he found, and conversation was rather mellow, with Mycroft as relaxed as he remembered from their previous 'date', a few weeks earlier.

He had been a bit worried that his letter had been too harsh, too confrontational, and that Mycroft would withdraw completely, but it seemed that it just managed to nudge him into the right direction. Well, the direction that Greg had been rather curious about, and now here they are, in a posh restaurant in Chelsea, near the river, eating something of which he wasn't entirely sure what it was (it looked like steak), rubbing knees with his new pen pal. He had already succeeded in casually touching his hand, while getting the Hollandaise sauce, which was placed on Mycroft's side of the table. It had been a very natural thing to do, let his hand go a bit further than the jug with the sauce in it, and graze the skin on Mycroft's hand, ever so lightly. It was received happily - Mycroft didn't flinch - and so Greg left his hand linger there just a little longer that he should. It felt like a small victory.

'This is rather lovely,' Greg grins, looking around him, then fixing his gaze on Mycroft again.

'It certainly is,' Mycroft smiles back, keeping his eyes firmly on the man across from him at the table. 'I'm so glad that you accepted my invite to come here.'

'Well, any chance to eat in this kind of place and not have to pay for it, I'll jump to… Don't think I've ever been anywhere near as posh as this… It's normally something a lot more low-budget…'

'Only the best for you,' Mycroft smiles, while looking away, blushing.

'Of course… Thank you for actually taking the plunge and meeting me in person,' Greg insists on looking into Mycroft's eyes while saying it. 'As much as I love your letters, though… Nothing beats actually being able to interact with you. See your reaction to what I say…'

Mycroft smiles that shy smile again, knowing he was just handed an open invite by the man at his table.

'It's not often I have someone as handsome as you say that to me, Gregory…'

'Likewise here, Mycroft…' Now it's Greg's turn to blush.

'Handsome, really?' Mycroft moves to put his hand on Greg's now, and leaves it there, waiting to see his reaction.

'Yes, Mycroft. Really… You're very handsome, now stop fishing…' he smiles coyly.

'I was worried you might be uncomfortable with me saying this to you… I hardly ever even consider coming on to married men, Gregory,' Mycroft carries on, feeling almost playful. 'How are things between you and your wife?'

Greg retracts his hand and folds it into his other one, places them under his head and leans on them, avoiding Mycroft's eyes.

'Not good, I suppose,' Greg replies abstractedly. Anna had been very distant up until then. He hadn't wanted to think about her, about the implications his burgeoning feelings for the man whose knee was burning a hole in his would have on his marriage. He really didn't want to go there. He wanted to have a good time, and have fun, and feel good, feel wanted.

'Couldn't you tell her?'

'What, about us? About the fact that I enjoy flirting with Sherlock Holmes' big brother? Yeah. She'd love that…' Greg pulls his best sarcastic face. 'She's already on the brink of another depression, Mycroft… I couldn't bear to have her tip over the edge…'

'I know, Gregory, I'm not saying you should. I was just trying to see where you were in… us, I suppose.'

'Yeah, sorry…' Greg looks bashful, unsure of what he should be doing now, knowing he wants to be closer to Mycroft. 'I suppose it is a little hypocritical of me, I'm well aware…'

'Not sure of its hypocritical if you're contemplating possible implications, like you seem to be doing… I'd say it's better than years of lying to her, carrying on behind her back… You're not doing that, are you?'

'Not yet, no…'

There is a silent spell for a few minutes, in which they both carry on with their meal.

'Just so that I know, Gregory, and don't take this the wrong way, but does she often have that?'

'Have what?'

'Well, depressions when things are tough between you two…? From what I heard you say, it sounds rather a lot like what Sherlock does with John, or our mother when our father was still alive. She for instance always had an immense depression every time our father had to leave the country for business. In the week before she was unbearable, and then, when he'd gone, she was fine… Like the prospect of his absence was too much for her. It sounds to me that your wife could have something similar… A cry for attention, perhaps…?'

'You saying she's putting it on? And I'm a sucker for her wiles?'

'No, I didn't mean that… It's probably a mechanism that she's not even aware of, Gregory… She's just trying to hang on to you, and thus far it worked… Maybe you might…' Mycroft tries not to sound desperate, worried that he might have blown it.

'What, leave her, high and dry?' Greg looks very annoyed.

'No, nothing of the sort.' Mycroft whispers, and sees Greg get up from his chair.

'Sorry, Mycroft… I just need to… I just…' he tries to explain, but anger has taken the upper hand and Greg walks off to the gents, hoping to regain some composure.

At the table Mycroft has covered his face with his hands and slumps into his chair a bit more, feeling utterly annoyed with himself. Why did he say what he did? How did he think that it would help this, help Greg? He really meant well, and he could see that this approach to Greg's situation came close to the way most of his family dealt with issues – distant, analytical, cold - as if incapable of knowing when to stop; he'd seen his brother do it so often, showing off his knowledge, not realising that the people on the receiving end were unhappy. And here he is himself, stomping over the feelings of the man he was very keen on holding in his arms. That didn't look very likely with this turn of events.

Meanwhile Greg is holding himself up over one of the wash-basins in the gents, feeling very angry at Mycroft. How can he say those things? He has no idea what it was like to live his life… How dare he be so harsh about his situation at home?! He really has no idea…

Greg looks at himself in the mirror, sees a middle aged man stare back at him. Grey hair, ageing skin, what on earth does Mycroft see in this, he wonders. Why would he, or anybody else, want to pursue _that_? But he seems to be very keen, very interested in making sure that Greg was going to be more than just a friend. Why?

Many thoughts run across his mind, while he stares at his reflection. Men enter and leave the lushly decorated restroom, using the basin next to his, and after a while Greg moves over to the armchair that is placed in the corner, wondering what he will do with this evening. Is he ready to give up his marriage to start a life with this stiff, repressed, posh man that is in so many ways alien to the life he knows? Would they even stand a chance together? Is it worth it, he thinks to himself, and he feels a big, loud 'YES!' well up from within. If nothing else: what will he do with the (very strong) _desires_ he's feeling for this man?! Is that why his marriage is feeling so strained?

He goes back over what Mycroft said, a few minutes earlier. He did have a point, when he said that Anna could be, well, not quite _using_ her depressions to have some kind of power over Greg (though i comes close), a way to keep him at home. He had wondered this himself, once or twice, and when his love for her was still strong, it never occurred to him that her depressions seemed to come along whenever he was working long weeks, or about to go away for a while for work, and these days, when things weren't going so well between them, they appeared to be happening rather often… Maybe Mycroft was right… Maybe he was onto something…

As he walks back to his chair, Greg notices a slightly crestfallen figure at the table. Mycroft's slightly slumped body is picking at food on his plate. Bits of left-over chicken are chased around the plate, with less vigour then a tired cat.

Greg walks over and when he reaches his destination, he puts a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. He feels the slight judder and then sees him turn around, facing him, with a look of slight shock, uncertainty, followed by a smile.

Greg moves his hand to touch Mycroft's face, gently, and he feels a hand touching his, grasping it, being moved towards a mouth that plants a gentle kiss on it. Greg smiles, carefully.

'Can we go outside for a bit please?' he asks.

Mycroft nods, moves to get up and waves to one of the waiters to come and sort out his bill. When he's paid both men get their coats and walk out into the fresh air.

'Sorry, about earlier,' Greg breaks the silence.

'Don't worry, Gregory, I realise that I've overstepped the mark. Please forgive me.'

'No you haven't,' Greg murmurs. 'You've just pointed something out that I didn't want to see… I should maybe thank you…'

The street is fairly quiet, with the odd taxi rushing past, and people wandering along. Greg feels a hand touch his, and in a bold move goes to grab it, lace his fingers with those belonging to Mycroft. They walk along some more, until they reach the walkway that runs along the river. Lights have come on, and the many autumnal trees make for a very romantic scene. Mycroft squeezes his hand, and turns to smile at Greg.

And with that Greg stops walking. Mycroft takes a second longer to cotton on to this and gets halted by Greg's hand, tugging him to a halt. He does an about turn and faces Greg, close by.

'Let me thank you,' Greg whispers, and moves even closer, his lips touching the other's mouth with slight trepidation. As he moves away he sees a beaming Mycroft, delighted to be thanked in this particular manner. He is met with interest, and the chaste kiss that Greg initiated earlier turns into something more. He feels Mycroft's lips on his, carefully touching first, then changing gears, and Greg pulls Mycroft closer towards him, as one arm goes around his waist, and another finds his face, and hair, and the back of his head, which is held firmly in place. He can feel the same done to himself, and the notion that he is being kissed so eagerly by Mycroft, by _another man_, is intoxicating. How did he not know until now how incredibly amazing that was?!

Mycroft wants nothing more than to keep holding on to Greg, keep him pressed against his body, close and warm, and to feel his lips, to feel his tongue on his, to hear his breath speed up like that, oh boy, he thinks he is dreaming… But he isn't, this is for real. He hears Greg groan into his mouth – Christ almighty, that is so incredibly erotic, he is sure he isn't going to be able to last until he gets back to his place – and he wants to unbutton that shirt underneath his coat, feel his skin, and…

'Oh, Mycroft… I think we should slow down a little…' Greg pants, though does little else to prove his point.

'Maybe, yeah,' Mycroft breathes, and pulls away slightly, wanting to see Greg's face in mid-flourish. The lights were bright enough to see that he was having trouble keeping it together. 'Do you want to… Do you… Shall I get…'

'No… Yeah… I do, but it think I – mph…' Greg attempts but feels lips on his once again. Kissing Mycroft is even more astonishing than he'd allowed himself to assume. 'No, Mycroft, we should, I want to… Please stop now before I do something I'll regret…'

'Yeah, I suppose you're right… But it's so lovely, this…' Mycroft mumbles and plants another kiss on Greg's lips, just a quick one, and another, and Greg smiles and allows to be kissed some more. They sit down on one of the benches that look out over the Thames, which has the lights and the moon make it seem sparkling. Mycroft puts an arm around Greg and touches his face, runs a thumb along his lips, his temple, his cheek, and goes to kiss him again.

'I'm so happy now, my dear Gregory,' he carries on when he's stopped caressing the mouth of the man in his arms. 'Are you okay?'

Greg nods, smiling. 'Yeah, but also a little freaked, if I'm honest…'

'Is this your first…'

'Hm… Yep…' Greg sniggers, 'So please be careful with me…'

'What? Never even contemplated?' Mycroft asked bemused.

'Not really… Well, once or twice there were guys I'd feel weirdly drawn to, and once I kissed this guy at the end of a survival week in Northumberland when I was at college, but I freaked out before anything really could happen… Since then the blokes-avenue has stayed firmly closed… Until you came into my life, of course…'

'Trust the Holmes boys to screw your life up, eh?' Mycroft says in his soft voice, and waits for a nudge in the side, which doesn't happen.

'Or save it…' Greg muses and lets his mouth meet Mycroft's once again. For many minutes. Until Greg hears the _pling_ of his phone, deep inside his coat pocket. 'Oh, fuck it... Please don't let this be work…' he groans. With a heavy heart he pulls out his phone and finds the message that was just now sent to him. His shoulders sag.

~ _please come home. Need to speak to you_ – Anna Lestrade


	5. post scriptum

**5. post scriptum**

Back in his house, Mycroft is feeling rather happy. Something he hasn't been familiar with in this way for far too long. His mind casts back to earlier in the evening, when he was sitting on that bench near the river, with a gentle wind blowing yellow and brown leaves around, and he was holding Gregory in his arms. That was the best bit, of course. Being able to touch him, and even better: kiss him… Kiss him for a long, _long_ time, familiarising himself with his mouth, his face from such close proximity, his scent, the way his hands would hold his own body… And Gregory seemed as happy, breaking down barriers and reluctance, allowing himself to thoroughly enjoy this new act, these different sensations. He was himself taking it slowly, wanting to savour every bit of his endeavour to get to know the man that turned his heart inside out, made it do funny rhythms whenever the Detective Inspector was around. Not that he had given himself any chance, he knew Greg was married, but the way he noticed him looking back at him, or looking at him when he thought that Mycroft was doing something else – that was not the look of someone who was left cold by his appearance… DI Dimmock, for instance, never looked at him that way… Some of the diplomats and private secretaries he met had, but not many of them were much cop compared to Gregory.

He went to bed with a smile on his face, and thoughts of this evening filled his mind, before he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

The house was lifeless when Greg returned, just after midnight. He'd stretched his time with Mycroft for another hour, feeling emboldened by their talk earlier, not wanting to leave him behind, wanting more time in his arms, kissing and touching and just being... It had felt wonderful.

Anna lay curled up on the sofa, with mascara smeared eyes which gave her the appearance of a forlorn panda. The tv was still on, quietly in the background. Greg found his wife like that, and felt a pang of guilt as he assumed how upset she must have been for having been left, again, all evening. He looked to where the tartan throw was, grabbed it and draped it over her. He wanted to turn the telly off, glanced at the coffee table to find the remote, and that's when he noticed the letter from Mycroft.

Well, he noticed a scrunched up ball of paper next to the envelope with his name written on in curls and assumed that she must have found it (going through his stuff?) and read it and came to the only conclusion probable.

Shit…

Next to the ball of paper was an empty wine glass. The bottle was on the floor, half empty. Or half full, whatever. Greg was feeling a mixture of anger and confusion now. How did she get that letter? It had been amongst his stuff, in his briefcase, last thing he remembered. Which had a number-lock on it. Could she lock-pick now?

He sat down on the armchair next to the sofa to process this all for a minute. The memories of kissing Mycroft flooding back in the middle of it. Wonderful, gorgeous, delicious Mycroft… It was all so confusing.

He heard a rustle on the sofa.

'Oh, hi, you're back,' he heard after a few minutes.

Greg looked at Anna, who was blinking and smiling in his direction.

'Hi, you okay?' he spoke, trying not to let his irritation and confusion overtake, doing his best to find 'concern' in his collection of emotions available.

'Yeah, fine. Did you have a good evening?' she carried on as if nothing was the matter.

'Yes thanks. You?'

_Wow, that was flowing well_, Greg thought to himself.

"Yeah, I guess…' she smiled, getting up to a sitting position. 'Interesting evening, so far. Bit boring at first, but then I um, I did some research… It's fascinating what you can find out about people that you presume you know, after 14 years of being married to them… Isn't it, _Gregory_…?' The tone of her voice was even, though she pronounced his name very demonstratively. Obviously emphasising the way Mycroft had written it in the letter…

'I suppose so,' Greg replied, waiting to see where this was going.

Anna bent down to pick up the ball of paper from the coffee table and un-scrunched it as best she could.

'When were you going to tell me, Greg?' she said, holding up the letter.

'How did you get that?'

'It was amongst some papers on your desk. I needed to find the stuff for getting the car serviced and suddenly I saw… this…'

'The car stuff is in the drawer under the phone, what were you doing in my desk?'

'I couldn't find the papers there, I thought they might be with your things, so I looked there. And then I found this… I was curious, Greg, thought it was from another woman, going by that handwriting. But this… Mycroft… He's a guy, isn't he?'

Greg nodded.

'He's the brother of that Sherlock guy you've been helping for the past few years, right? That junky that slept in our spare bedroom for a week?'

Again, Greg nodded. 'Yes.'

Anna was still fairly calm, but her voice was breaking at times.

'Do you love him?'

Greg looked at his wife, confused.

'Or do you just want to fuck him…? I've heard of blokes who get off on that, get turned on by other guys and have a quick fuck and then go back to their wife and kids… Is it like that?'

_Charming_, Greg thought.

'No, it's not like that…'

"Well, what's it like then? Are you gay?'

'I don't know, Anna. I feel… I'm in love with him, yes. But I'm not gay… It's just him… I like him…' Greg felt very much on the back foot now. 'A lot…'

'Do you love him…?' Anna asked with a voice that was very close to shattering.

Greg thought about what he was going to say for a bit, then words just spilt out like overflowing water. 'I think I do…'

That was the point that Anna lost her composure. She started weeping, and Greg felt like such a bastard, and he got up to sit with her, to put an arm around her, and she accepted it, leant on him, burying her head in her hands.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered, hoping to make it less awful.

They carried on sitting on the sofa, in a strange embrace, for another hour or so. Anna stopped crying after half an hour, and Greg wondered when to start speaking again. He doesn't really want to say anything, scared he will break the spell, but he needs to visit the toilet and is desperate for a cup of tea.

When he comes back in to the living room he carries two mugs and a packet of chocolate biscuits with him. He sits down in the sofa next to Anna and passes her one of the mugs and offers the packet to her. She shakes her head.

'Maybe I sort of already knew, in a weird kind of way…' she says after a few minutes.

'Knew what?'

'That you liked men as well… You were very um… how shall I say it, weird with that Sherlock guy… Like you were drawn to him, you couldn't do enough for him… Is he like Sherlock?'

'A bit… From the same nest…'

'Have there been other guys before?'

Greg shakes his head. 'He's the first…'

'Have you slept with him?'

'No...' Greg's whisper is inaudible almost.

'So how do you know you want to be with him if you haven't even slept with him yet?'

'I don't know, Anna… Maybe I don't… Maybe I just like being with him… We've only kissed… Tonight…'

'When I sent you that text? You were… snogging him?' Anna sees him nod. 'And you liked that?'

'Yes… Yes, I liked kissing him… A lot… I liked touching him and him touching me and Jesus, Anna do we have to talk about all that? I fancy him, okay? I want to…'

'Fuck him?'

'Bloody hell, do you have to say it like that? No I don't want to 'fuck him'… I want to be with him, and to see what happens… I've felt lonely, Anna, for years… We haven't been happy together for ages, and I didn't have a clue how to make you happy, and I tried, for so long, but it wasn't working anymore… I'm really sorry, I really am, but when he told me he was in love with me, I suddenly allowed for all of that to flush through me, and it felt wonderful, Anna… I felt wonderful… Because of him…'

'I know… I can see that, now, when you talk about him… But I love you too, Gregory… I've loved you for the past 15 years, since we go to know each other… Doesn't that count for anything…?'

Greg took her hand and put his other hand on top.

'I will never stop loving you, Anna, but I don't feel what I did in the beginning. Haven't for years… I love you, like a friend,'

'Oh great,' Anna replied sarcastically. 'A friend…'

'I'm sorry, but that's the truth…'

'But I don't know if I can live without you, Greg… I don't want to lose you…' Anna wept again.

'I know…' Greg pulled her towards him again and felt himself well up, noticed a tear stream down his cheek. 'I know…'

* * *

Some months passed as Greg and Anna tried to find a way to spilt up amicably. Greg found a flat near work, and carried on seeing Mycroft every now and then for meals and very long talks, and the odd fondle in Mycroft's house, but both men had decided that Greg's divorce had priority over their courtship, and that nothing major would be right for now.

The hardest point came when Anna had had enough of it all, and he found her having taken all of her sleeping pills, and Greg was in pieces, trying to find a way to stop her from trying to take her life again. He stayed with her for days in the hospital, feeling guilt-ridden, and managed to persuade her to seek proper professional help. He got the phone number of a friend of John Watson, who specialised in alternative treatment of mental health issues, and she responded well to it. Mycroft helped him to stop feeling like it was all his fault. Which was pretty hard work.

Anna moved in with her mother after she was dismissed from the clinic, and the house was sold a lot quicker than was assumed likely in these times of crisis, to a couple with two small children. Greg was happy now that he and Anna didn't have any. It had been a bone of contention at various points in their relationship.

Some time after Christmas it all appeared to have settled, and Greg had invited Mycroft around for a meal together, to celebrate a new beginning. Greg had been busy in his kitchen, cooking Mycroft's favourite dish, and his guest was sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine in his hand, twiddling the stem between his fingers. The evening had been very promising.

'So, Anna was okay then when you took her to the airport?' Mycroft asked form the living room.

'Yup, off and away to New Zealand for six weeks, with her sister,' Greg replied as he leant against the draining board. 'She looked so much happier than I'd seen her in a long time.'

'Oh, good…' Mycroft smiled. He got up from the sofa and walked up to the kitchen, making a slow bee-line for Greg. 'No interruptions, then…'

'Unless work…' Greg tried, but was stopped by a mouth that suddenly covered his. Tenderly Mycroft kissed him, and unlike most of the other times, when going beyond this was not on the cards, he allowed himself to lose his composure, and all the passion he was holding inside came streaming out.

Kissing Mycroft had become his valve, releasing tension that built up from making sure that he handled Anna the right way. She was at breaking point so many times, that Greg lost count, and seeing Mycroft, being held by him, caressed and kissed, would see him through another spell. Mycroft's kiss became synonymous with love, and love was so longed for…

Intoxicated with the taste of Mycroft's mouth, Greg forgot that there was dinner being made. This was so much more fun, and Mycroft's hand under his shirt was way more attractive.

'Maybe you should turn off the stove, Gregory,' hummed the silky voice in his ear.

'Not any more, remember…' Greg hummed back.

'No, I mean the cooker, here in the kitchen… I think we should take this…'

'Ah, get you now…' Greg sniggered. 'Sorry…' He turned around to switch off the fire under the pans and resumed his actions from just before.

'You ready for this?' Mycroft asked in between kisses.

'Not exactly a virgin any more, darling…'

'Not with women, no…'

'I'll go with the flow, My… Let's just take it easy, yeah?'

'Okay, I'll try…' Mycroft murmured and let his lips make contact with Greg's once more. They grazed and caressed, nibbled and nipped, and his tongue licked enthusiastically over Greg's bottom lip, let it reacquaint itself with his company. Mycroft heard Greg's breath get faster and knew he was going to be in luck here. His hands moved underneath Greg's shirt again, pulling it over his head, his hand stroking the chest he now had full access to, so tenderly that Greg's breath hitched.

'Oh, Jeez…' Greg moaned. He opened his eyes for a second, and smiled, wanting to feel all of Mycroft's body. He took his hand and pulled him towards his bedroom, pushed a load of clothes from his bed and started to undo whatever buttons and zips were keeping his hands from touching Mycroft's skin.

Greg very much liked what he saw, and touched every bit he could get his hands on, gently, eagerly. He moved down a bit to be able to kiss his chest and his stomach, and noticed how sensitive the man in his arms was. A shiver interrupted his kiss, and he looked up into the eyes of a man who was somehow unsure. Greg moved back up to kiss his mouth, and stroke his face some more.

'You're beautiful, Mycroft…' he breathed, with as much love as he could find inside. 'To me you're the most gorgeous man in the world…'

No answer came, and Greg looked into his eyes again. 'I love you…'

A smile formed and he felt his head was pulled closer for a searing kiss, and from that he lost track of what exactly happened when…

All he knew was that he was lying naked in his bed, with Mycroft equally naked next to him, lost for breath and words, with a stupid grin on his face, and an arm wrapped around Greg's waist. It all happened so fast, the excitement that took over, the tender caressing that changed into frantic love-making, impassioned touches and a volatile release of both men, almost simultaneously. The groans must've been heard three streets away, but neither man could give a hoot. They embraced each other, exhausted from their exploits, and fell into a short sleep.

Dinner was eaten very late that night, when they were hungry and eager for food rather than each other. For a little while.

The letter that started it all was safely tucked away inside a shoebox with special items that Greg had assembled over the years, which moved into Mycroft's house when Greg gave in to Mycroft's begging him to come and live with him, a few months on. It contained among others his late father's watch, some photo's of his nan and granddad, and the theatre ticket for the first date he had with Anna, as well as his old wedding ring. He didn't get it out much, but he knew it would be part of his life's story. His life that now included a man that would address him as _My Dear Gregory..._


End file.
